Heroes In Uniform (83 page)

She was early to come, shuddering, the tanned cheeks of her ass melting over his thighs as her body pitched. He slowed down, wanting to prolong her pleasure. She was gripping the metal doorframe, forcing her forehead against her forearms, moving from side to side.

As her fluttering ended, she reached around and grabbed his ass with both hands, grinding into him. “God, Fredo, Oh, my god.”

At first he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. The sound of his name on her lips elicited a growl from deep in his chest as he wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in the back of her neck, needing to have the scent of her hair all around him, urgently needing her deep, needing the lifeline her fine young body gave him.

Save me, Mia.

He wanted it to last longer, but he shot inside her. He didn’t want time to slip away. He wished he could fill her forever.

“Yes, baby,” he heard her breathe as she arched again, reaching her arm back over her, running her fingers through his hair as he thrust one last time, lifting her again off the ground.

He didn’t want to set her feet back on the ground. He held her securely, his arm draped over her breasts as she undulated against him until he was completely spent.

She wiggled free, which at first worried him. Sliding off his cock, her tweaked nipples smashed into him as she turned and drew her thighs up over his hips, planting a big kiss on his mouth. She sucked his tongue into hers. He was emboldened that she would look into his face and not find the flaw of his features. She was as needy for him as he had been—was—for her.

At last he chanced a word. “Mia,” he whispered, between her tongue and her lips.

“Oh baby, please, can we go some more?”

Like, more sex? Hell, yes!

He cupped her behind, smoothing over her satin skin, digging his fingers into her soft, all-female padding. She had crossed her arms behind his head, pulling his face into hers, running fingertips through the hair at his temples, and easing the scar on his chest with the warm movement of her wonderful breasts.

He sat on the edge of her bed, looking up at her. Her warm brown eyes consumed him. She adjusted him, running her index finger and thumb in a ring up and down his wet shaft.

“I want you inside me again,” she whispered.

“Yes.” It was all he could think to say, as she continued to stimulate him, making him even harder than before.

“Why was I so stupid, Fredo?” She found that hollow between his shoulder and the base of his neck and kissed him there. Her left hand massaged down his chest until she found the crescent scar. She ran her fingers up his buttons, and then slowly, carefully undid each one, and eased his shirt off, letting her eyes memorize what her fingers had felt. Then she leaned down, kissing him there, running her tongue over the place where he’d been given the life-saving cut that would forever mark him.

He was overcome with her delicate treatment of his wound.

“Love me, Fredo,” she whispered as she snuggled onto his lap and guided him to her opening.

She closed her eyes and he watched her savor the feel of him sliding into her. Her mouth in that perfect “O”. He’d never thought he could make her feel this way, and he wasn’t an anonymous lover catching her from behind, perhaps enabling her to dream of someone else while he came inside her. She was seeing him, all of him. Feeling him inside her, because he was the one she wanted.

Cruisin’ for a Seal: Chapter Eight

T
he road to
Marrakesh was a long one, through red earth and clusters of light, olive green patches in between the rocky soil and vast expanses of nothing. Mark saw how hard the farmers worked on their little plots of land, sometimes communally, and didn’t wonder for a second why some opted for the city, even choosing a life of begging over the impossible odds of farming with oxen and cart in such a desolate land.

He’d taken on Sanouk as his personal responsibility, something Kyle and the others were too busy to do. All of them were on the same bus.

Mark could see remnants of the Berber culture that felt somewhat similar to the lands and peoples of Afghanistan, especially the minarets and the call to prayers. Part of the tension he felt during deployment crept back. But he was sitting on a groaning bus, along with his buds, men who’d seen battle the same as he had, but they also had Christy, Gina, Mia and Jasmine, Libby and Devon, too. And that was maybe what helped the tension mess with his mind this morning.

He wondered what it would take before he could just visit these places and not have to feel afraid for his life, or for the lives of those around him. He wondered if he could ever have a serious interest in the Middle East without feeling resentment for the loss of those he held in his arms while they died. What the world would feel like if people didn’t want to kill each other.

He almost never allowed himself such thoughts. It was his job to just do and not question. Unlike the Crusaders, he was on a mission to stop the killing, the overrunning of an innocent population by thugs and gangsters who used their religion to control them. He wasn’t going to convert them, just make them stop killing everyone who disagreed, or die trying.

The Berber driver was speaking in that rapid-fire English with a healthy dose of syrupy sweetness that always raised the hackles on the back of his neck.

“You understand him much?” Sanouk asked.

“About every other word,” Mark answered as he watched the bus pass a small cart pulled by a skinny donkey, and piled high with something wrapped in black and blue tarps. The man sat sideways on his cargo, smacking the donkey’s rear with a reed. The little animal was skipping down the dusty road parallel to the bus, looking malnourished and scared to death.

They drove by a square with a large school and mosque. Mark didn’t have the desire to go inside, and he knew his buds probably felt the same, but they weren’t about to be difficult or draw attention to themselves. They poured out onto the hot, dusty street and immediately were assaulted with the same familiar sounds of traffic, minaret callers, radios blaring the calls, several dialects he recognized, and several he didn’t. Young, crippled boys hobbled on one foot with plastic water bottles cut in half asking for coin. All of the SEALs opened their wallets and layered small one-dollar bills there, creating a small crowd of followers the tour guide sharply shooed away.

“American? You are US?” the guide asked.

Kyle shrugged and nodded.

“We love Americans,” he said as he tried to open his arms and give Kyle a hug. Kyle stepped back and the guide laughed at the rebuff, but Mark could see an underlying resentment there. “You will see, we love Americans in this country. Morocco isn’t like the rest of Africa.”

The rest of the bus unloaded until they were standing amidst heavyset older tourists.

“In my country,” the guide continued, “we have a very good King. He love Obama. He and Obama are good friends,” he held up two forefingers side by side, the universal sign for togetherness. The Berber guide wasn’t giving up, “You will see, my friends.”

As they walked into the large market square they were assaulted by bright-colored clothing, and spices that made Mark want to sneeze. A couple of small boys were holding snakes, asking for money for a picture. Necklaces made out of nuts and shells, plastic gems and knots of colored leather started to look alike. Some had baseball caps with “I heart Marrakesh” logos on them, and silk shawls of every color.

Christy wandered into a stall and was surrounded by a bevy of dark-skinned men draping silks over her body as she laughed, her beautiful long, blonde hair and hoop earrings flashing in the sunlight. Kyle went on instant alert and pulled her away from the quicksand of commerce, earning some disapproving looks from the vendors.

“You don’t just do that, Christy,” Mark heard him tell his wife.

“Oh stop it, Kyle.” Christy wiggled away from his grip and turned her back to him, looking for another stall to explore.

“This isn’t Kansas anymore, Dorothy,” he said to her back.

She lifted her sunglasses and gave him a sultry smile, but a challenge. “I’m on vacation. I want to experience this place, just a little. Besides, with all of you right here, on duty, we’re safe.” She joined Libby and they walked ahead of the rest of the Team.

Fredo rolled his eyes as Mia pulled him into another stall to do some haggling.

The tour guide abruptly interrupted any viable commerce. Mark realized the guy had his own ideas about who should benefit from the group’s dollars.

Mark saw a beautiful turquoise necklace dotted with amber beads and stopped to inquire. The guide stood in front of him, waving his arms, the sleeves of his kaftan flapping like butterfly wings. The shopkeeper slunk to the background.

“Hold it there, Tonto. I’m interested in that necklace,” Mark said.

“Not good quality. I have a place you will find much better quality at a better price. Trust me. Your lady will be very, very pleased.”

The guide’s defiant brown grin ticked Mark off a bit. He picked the man up by the forearms and placed him three feet from where he originally stood. Mark motioned for the owner to come forward. The black-skinned man’s eyes darted from side to side as he bowed and came forward.

“How much?”

The Berber guide tried to insert himself again, but Mark gave him a glare.

“Not the quality. Not the quality.”

“I don’t care a fuck about the quality. What’s the price?” It became a matter of principle. He wanted that necklace for some reason, and was willing to overpay for it. It became important that he have it.

“Your lady will not be pleased,” the guide tried to say.

“There is no lady. It’s for me,” Mark said a little too loudly. Instantly Rory and Kyle were at his elbow.

“Easy there, partner,” Kyle said.

“Kyle, get this monk off my ass, will you?” he growled to his LPO.

Kyle occupied the robed guide while Mark negotiated sixty euros for the necklace, which was about half of what he’d expected to pay. The shopkeeper put it around his neck and gave him a toothless grin. Mark handed him another five Euro bill.

“For the dog,” he pointed to a skinny mutt asleep on a pile of blue plastic bags. He tucked the necklace into his shirt and felt the cool stones begin to warm from his skin. He thought about what they would look like on Sophia’s smooth, tanned body, how perfectly they would drape between her breasts with those full, dark areolas that would pucker when he touched them. The vision alone was worth the euros, even though he was fairly sure he’d never get that chance again.

Not unless she got the itch.

They watched the twirling dancers, the snake charmers and spice vendors, all calling for coin. There wasn’t any way he was going to touch one of the black cobras, didn’t matter they had been milked of their venom. Snakes gave him the creeps. He outran one teenager who had picked up on this and was enjoying taunting the overbuilt American with the soft heart.

Get your shit together, Mark.

If the kid got too close again he was fully prepared to use the KA-BAR strapped to his shin and decapitate the squirming black creature, and to hell with the fact that it would be a very stupid move.

Their guide led them through tunnels of makeshift shops, weaving around back and forth, probably in an effort to disorient the travelers. The rest of the group was getting restless because they weren’t being allowed to shop. At last the group came to a small metal building and everyone was herded inside, then made to sit.

“The oil will make your skin look twenty years younger,” the guide said. That might work on the tourists who were in their fifties and sixties, but one glance at the girls with the Team guys and he realized his mistake. “In your case, ladies, it will help you look young forever.” An uneasy tension descended upon the room.

Mark connected with each of the men, and they got up, pulling the girls with them. “No thanks. We’ll be outside,” Kyle said.

Despite the guide’s voluble attempts, the rest of the group followed right behind, so that the whole room emptied in a stampede worthy of a good western, leaving the tour guide in the midst of an argument with the shop owner.

Lunch was served
in an old building exquisitely decorated with inlay of agate, marble and sandalwood. The squishy-carpeted hallway led them to a wide room, where several other tours from their ship were already seated around brass tables. They took their places amongst silk cushions while tea was served.

A three-piece group began to perform Arabic music with heavy drums. A veiled woman snaked her way into the center of the room, a silver tray lit with candles balanced atop her head. She took turns in front of all the tables, but stayed especially long in front of the SEAL group.

Mark was transfixed with how she could shake her rear while still managing to shimmy her chest, all while bending backward and balancing the tray. She encouraged him to come dance with her, and his buds gave him the rest of the impetus he needed.

Suddenly self-conscious of his cargo shorts and flip-flops, he attempted to match her grace, but fell short. She took his hand, entwining his fingers with hers, and moved her stomach muscles back and forth, undulating to the beat of the music, encouraging him to do the same. Mark worked as hard as he could, but couldn’t be as supple as she was. He felt ill at ease—stupid, in fact.